


In the Still of the Night

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Series: Dog Days of Summer [12]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: dogdaysofsummer, Frottage, M/M, Marauders' Era, Sex on the Beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-12
Updated: 2005-08-12
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3639744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius is drunk on firewhisky and Remus is drunk on Sirius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Still of the Night

_The solemn light behind the barns,_  
_The rising moon, the cricket's call,_  
_The August night, and you and I—_  
from, "August Moonlight", by Richard le Gallienne

*

Remus wakes to the sound of pebbles clattering on the floor, aimed at the open window. The clouds of the day have rolled back, and the sky is clear. The moon is late in rising tonight; a silver sliver, it gives almost no light at all, though the stars shine brightly out here in the country.

He sticks his head outside to see Sirius standing below, shining more brightly still.

“Oi, Moony, come out and play.”

Sirius is loud and inexorable; Remus knows better than to resist. He grabs his broom and launches himself out the window, a maneuver learned from James and Sirius, at the cost of a broken arm when he was twelve.

Hovering a few feet in the air above Sirius now, wearing only a pair of grotty shorts that may or may not be more holes than cloth, Remus smiles and says, “Oi, Padfoot. What’s going on?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sirius answers with a shrug, and Remus nods.

Since he’s run away from home, Sirius has been--different. While he’s always swung from high to low on the turn of an instant, these days, his highs are edged with a brittleness bordering on hysteria, and his lows take on a profound lassitude that reminds Remus of himself the morning after the full moon, shot through with a nihilism Remus would find frightening if he didn’t know Sirius as well as he does. To be truthful, even as well as he knows Sirius, he is still somewhat frightened for him, for what he's had, what he’s lost, what the combination may do to him, if James can’t lend a steadying hand.

“Hop on,” Remus says, steeling himself for the heat of Sirius’s body pressed up against him as the broomstick dips and sways as Sirius climbs on behind him.

Sirius wraps his arms around Remus’s waist and rubs his face against Remus’s shoulder, and Remus has to force himself to concentrate on holding on, on flying, because the feel of Sirius’s skin against his is intoxicating.

So is Sirius’s breath when he rests his chin on Remus’s shoulder and says, “Where are we going?”

Remus bites back the comment about drinking and Apparating, and instead says, “Nowhere in particular. Why? Did you have something in mind?”

“Mmm, no. Just wanted to see my Moony. You are my Moony, aren’t you?” He rubs his cheek against Remus’s shoulder again, and Remus’s grip on the broom is so tight his fingers are aching. He doesn’t answer. He has no answer to give. _Yes,_ he would say, _I am,_ but in the morning, when Sirius is sober and more himself, he will have either forgotten or will use Remus’s words against him somehow. Remus has learned to be wary of Sirius’s affection these days. He's been mistaken before in Sirius’s intentions, and has promised himself he will never be again. Of course, those are promises he always breaks.

He heads to the beach, lands easily on the soft sand, and dismounts quickly, putting distance between himself and Sirius, so dangerously attractive in the starlight.

When Sirius begins stripping, he realizes he has perhaps miscalculated. Sirius has already tossed his t-shirt to the sand and is bent over, untying his boots, before Remus can find his voice.

“Sirius, no,” he says, staring out at the sea so he doesn’t have to look at Sirius’s chest, like a marble statue in the darkness, or the sweet curve of his arse as he bends over. "There were storms all day. Water’s too rough for night swimming."

“Who said I wanted to swim?” Sirius asks, kicking his boots aside and shimmying out of his jeans to stand there, naked as the day he was born.

Remus doesn’t want to stare, but he can’t look away, either, nor stop his body’s response to this magnificent sight.

“Always so careful, my Moony, so circumspect. So damned closed off.” Sirius stalks toward him and Remus manages to safely retreat a step or two, and then stumbles, bare feet sinking into the cool sand, damp from the day’s rains. He lands on his arse, and isn’t quick enough to avoid Sirius dropping down on top of him.

“Sirius, what--" He's cut off by Sirius’s mouth closing over his own, and he knows he’s lost, he will give in and give up, give himself to Sirius completely in the bright August starlight, and Sirius will reject his gift in the morning sunlight.

Sirius tastes of firewhisky and warm night air, possibility and loss. His hands shove at Remus’s shorts, and then they're skin to skin, thrusting and rubbing, desperately seeking friction, release, bodies slick with sweat and gritty with sand. Sirius is drunk on firewhisky and Remus is drunk on Sirius; it's a heady combination, making even the air spark and glow as they move together, rolling like the tide.

Sirius comes with Remus’s name on his lips, soft, harsh, like the cry of gulls, and the need, the wonder in it draws Remus after him, pleasure radiating through him and out over their bodies.

Sirius presses his face into Remus’s neck, mumbling things Remus can’t make out. He strokes Sirius’s hair and cradles his body, offering what comfort he can. He tries not to think of what the morning will bring, and for a while, in the warm still of the night, he succeeds.

*


End file.
